If Only They Knew
by piratepissoff
Summary: <html><head></head>Sam and Dean show up at Bela's house after a nasty hunt; Sam exhausted and Dean pumped full of bullet wounds and painkillers. After Sam turns in for the night, Bela watches Dean rest, and he more or less confesses his feelings for her.</html>


**A/N: ** So, this is probably set somewhere after the series. Or, rather, maybe in an AU of 2014. Yeah, I'm going with that one. Also, if you've read my other (and first) Dean/Bela fic, this fic itself will not be part of that universe. I'm thinking of turning this work into a Dean/Bela collection where I build up their relationship.

As always, read, comment, and enjoy!

* * *

><p>Bela spent most of her free time alone, but she did this mainly by choice, and not by default. She liked sitting on her couch by the fire and reading a book; liked having aimless conversations with her cat; liked cleaning and polishing her guns while listening to some modern classical blaring from her iPod dock. So, when Sam Winchester came knocking on her door around nine o'clock on a Tuesday night, you could say that she was more than a little bit annoyed, but when he explained that he and Dean—who was high on painkillers and being supported by one of Sam's arms—needed a place to recover after a nasty hunt, she reluctantly obliged.<p>

The boys were more or less her…_friends_, now. It had been years since everything that had happened back in 2008. The hellhounds took her and she spent what felt like eternity down there, and somewhere along the line, after he was dragged down by the hounds himself, Dean joined and subsequently tortured her. Currently, she wasn't thinking about this incident in a dark light. She was scared and confused and full of anger back when he actually did it, sure, but he came back for her after he was saved prior. Maybe part of him felt guilty for torturing her, although she put him and Sam through enough hell when all three of them were alive and kicking before. Whatever the reason for his return-and-rescue was, she was forever indebted (this time, ten thousand dollars definitely wouldn't do), and hence the reason why Sam was currently passed out in her guest room and Dean slumped over on her couch.

Her eyes flicked down to Dean's half-awake, half-asleep but nonetheless completely drugged-out form. He was shirtless but mostly wrapped in blood-stained bandages; the boy had suffered badly. Sam briefly explained that they were hunting a clan of vampires an hour or so up north and that the creatures had discovered that guns complemented their supernatural abilities nicely, resulting in Dean catching more than a few non-fatal gun wounds (ironically, vampires didn't have very good aim, it seemed) and a knock to the head after he fell and smacked his forehead against the corner of a metal slab.

Bela didn't ask about the metal slab and she didn't ask how Dean managed to get himself shot. She knew him well enough now—and even back _then_—that the elder Winchester was bold. Sometimes _stupid_, but bold nonetheless. You could always count on Dean for bravery.

He quietly stirred beside her and, instinctively, she ran a hand down his bare arm in order to stop him. He shouldn't have been moving, she immediately thought; he's going to disturb the wounds. She winced as she recalled Sam telling her how he pulled out the bullet casings and cleaned and stitched the wounds himself, not wanting to picture how bad Dean looked then considering how out-of-state he seemed now. His tan skin was terribly bruised and his muscles were painfully tense. She wanted to soothe her hand all over, wanted to _help_ him, but she was caught between the decision of doing and not doing so; her instincts sending her mixed signals and simultaneously making her head ache.

"Bela…," his voice, which sounded slurred and creaky, forced her to snap her head up and look at him. His eyes were closed but his forehead was deeply creased, and he was mumbling things that Bela couldn't comprehend. "Bela."

She didn't say anything, her curiosity piquing as he kept mumbling her name over and over and instead leaned forward to better hear him. His breath began to lightly tickle the curve of her ear and her face warmed in response, but she ignored it and further concentrated on what he was murmuring.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, and then suddenly he turned his head and opened his eyes just wide enough to see out from under his eyelashes, and Bela automatically jumped away. When his eyes didn't follow her back to her upright position and instead looked as if they were rotating in his head, she realized that he was still high on the painkillers and antibiotics Sam had put him on. This realization made her relax again, and she waited for Dean to continue.

"Bela…you're there, right?" Dean didn't turn his head to see, just closed his eyes as the weight of having to hold them open any longer took a toll on him. "Yeah, you're there. I can smell your perfume."

She raised her eyebrows. _She_ couldn't even smell her perfume—but then again, she was probably used to it.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, and she was frowning at him, confused. "You didn't deserve that. You didn't. When I…cut…I saw, I saw…."

And then, she knew. She knew he was talking about Hell, about the torture, because when he first cut into her, she saw, too. No, not only did she see, she _relived_. After she felt that knife pierce her she was suddenly being thrown back to when she was fourteen years old, and she was sitting on her bed dressed in her school uniform from head to toe. She could still feel the dull pain of the blade pushed up against her abdomen, but she was only able to concentrate on the sounds coming down the hallway. _This_ was her real Hell, she remembered thinking as the doorknob rattled and turned. _This_ was the reason why she was even rotting down there in the first place.

They were connected, her and Dean, when he cut her. That was why he was able to see her father edge the door open with the toe of his loafer, see him slowly wiggle his fingers and dance them up her cotton white socks and then across her bare thigh. He saw the tears quietly rolling down her fourteen year-old face and saw the overeager smile trot across her father's mouth. Dean saw everything, and that was why he rescued her.

A part of her twitched with agitation. She didn't want his pity. She didn't want anyone's pity. But then she wasn't mad at him, because he could've chosen to pity her while also leaving her down there. He didn't _have_ to rescue her like that angel saved him, he just did. He chose to go back down there, to goddamn Hell, and pull her out like one would a weed from the earth, but with a lot more hellfire and demons looming in between.

Dean was still apologizing. "I told you to go to hell. That one night; I'm sure you remember. I'm sorry I said that," she noticed that his eyes were open again, or rather kept fluttering open and closed. "I'm sorry."

Bela squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears that were banking behind her eyelids to go away. Dean continued as she did so.

"You know…if things were different…." He began, and she opened her eyes just in time to watch his Adam's apple dip in a long swallow. "If I didn't, you know...maybe we could..._be_ different. Us. Together."

His voice died out near the end, but Bela knew what he was trying to say. _Maybe we could be together. You and I. A couple._ God knew she thought about it more than once, although she never really knew why she never acted on it. Maybe it was because every time she saw Sam and Dean, the latter always averted his eyes away from hers, always avoided individually talking to her. Now that she thought about it, it was probably because he felt guilty for everything he had just relayed to her. If only he knew that she didn't blame him one bit.

So, she told him, "I don't blame you, Dean. For anything. And...maybe things _could_ be different, if we tried," even though she knew he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning.

"Yeah...," he sighed, and then his eyes closed for the last time before he fell asleep. Bela continued to watch him for a few more minutes before standing up, pressing her lips softly to his, and retreating to her own bedroom for the night. If only she knew that, when he came to the next day, he _did_ remember.


End file.
